When Harry Met Sherlock
by hifunctioning
Summary: In Which Sherlock Has Dinner With Harry And John And Learns That BAMF!ness Runs In The Family. No slash, squint if you want.


Sherlock didn't look up from his laptop, but he heard John make that tiny _hmph_ sound in the back of his throat and saw, out of the corner of his eye, how he shoved his mobile into his trouser pocket.

Typically, Sherlock would leave it at that. In general, asking people for an explanation was a waste of time at best, more often than not opening the door to harrowingly dull conversation. This was not a road Sherlock ever wanted to travel. With John, however, he had learned that these little inquiries often paid off. For one thing, John rarely wasted his time. If it was irrelevant, he would say so, and if it was relevant, he would explain with reasonable economy. Furthermore, Sherlock had discovered that it pleased John when he asked him about his feelings. It was silly, but since it made John happy, Sherlock didn't much mind.

"Problem?" he asked.

"Just talked to Harry," John replied. "She wants to meet you."

"To meet me?" Sherlock looked up from his laptop and narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What for?"

"She says she's heard so much about you, from me, y'know, and she just really wants to meet you."

"Hm. Unfortunately, I have no corresponding desire to meet her." Sherlock returned to his laptop. He'd hacked into Molly's account on the Bart's database (password cracked in 1.8 minutes) and was enjoying his perusal of patient files.

"Sherlock, listen. If you meet, I'm pretty sure it will be a disaster and I will almost certainly regret it, but the alternative is much much worse. My sister… when she gets a hold of something, she is relentless. She really wants to meet you. She reckons you and she are the most important people in my life," – Sherlock arched an eyebrow in surprise – "ergo, you should meet. Now that she's decided, she is going to lock on like a pit bull until she gets what she wants. She will make me suffer. So I am asking you for a favor. As a friend. Save me from my sister. Have dinner with us, please."

Sherlock looked up from his laptop again with great irritation. Only two people in the world would seriously contemplate asking him for a favor – his brother and John. _Well, John has been forced to meet my brother,_he thought. _I suppose there's some symmetry there._Besides, he could look at it as a research project. He might learn something about John from Harry, and he considered John a fairly engaging subject, as living people go. And John did promise a disaster. This would almost certainly not be true, since John's idea of a disaster was mind-numbingly dull – the entire dinner burning to a crisp, his favorite jumper being used to soak up a pigs blood spill, that sort of thing – but still, there was the tiniest chance that this meeting could yield an actual disaster, something interesting. The most likely outcome? She would painfully boring; her comments on John's blog made that obvious. But as a favor to John... Sherlock closed his eyes, sighed, and drawled, "Fiiiiiiiiiiiiine" in the most martyred tone he could muster.

John's face brightened. "Brilliant. We're on for 7:00 then. Ethiopian ok?"

… ... ...

Stepping out of the cab, John asked, "Hey, one more thing? One more favor, please?"

Sherlock closed his eyes as if the entire world pained him deeply, then suddenly realized he must look exactly like Mycroft and opened them abruptly. "What?"

"If you start to say something, um, a bit not good, I'll just step on your foot, yeah? And the favor that I'm asking is that you actually _stop_ whatever you're saying when I do that. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, fine. And will you be stepping on her foot too?"

"No, no. Harry and me, we've developed a very sophisticated code over the years. I kick her in the shin as hard as I can."

Sherlock smirked. "Don't worry, John. I'll be _so_ very nice to her."

"Not actually her I'm worried about," John mumbled under his breath as he opened the restaurant door.

Sherlock looked around approvingly. John excelled at picking restaurants. He knew just the right amount of light Sherlock wanted; fluorescent lights bothered him, but it still needed to be bright enough that he could see everything. It couldn't be too crowded, because he didn't like people pushing up on him ever and especially not when he was trying to eat, but there had to be enough people to give him something to look at. And there had to be windows, plenty of windows next to a busy street. This restaurant fit every requirement. John gave him a curt nod and led the way to a table which was both next to a window, for optimal viewing, and near the door, for a fast exit if required. Sherlock sat down, looked out the window, and said, "Here she comes."

He couldn't see her face yet, but he would've known her anywhere by the way she hunched her head down between her shoulders in the cold, exactly like John. Her black coat was practical – waterproof shell, insulated lining, big hood, double zippers. It was expensive and didn't show much wear, but it was several years old. She used to be outdoorsy, or liked to think of herself that way, but never really got out of the city after buying this coat. As she came inside and took it off, Sherlock took note of her turtleneck jumper, too baggy to begin with and a bit stretched out in spots, good quality and holding up well, but clearly well used – was this a genetic trait, this inordinate love of jumpers? At least Harry had the sense to wear one in a color that suited her, a soft blue like her eyes. She'd tried to roll the cat hair off this jumper and mostly succeeded, but a few hairs still clung. Tabby. Her jeans, a darker blue, were tucked into brown riding boots, stylish but extremely sensible, and also expensive. These were new, Sherlock noticed. Probably her extravagant purchase for the year.

"Hullo, Sherlock Holmes," she said warmly, extending her right hand. Her nails were very neat, short, unpolished, and slightly nicotine stained. She smelled like Marlboro Lights; had one about 10 minutes ago, probably lit up as soon as she got out of the tube and then walked here. Her hair was blonde with a few gray streaks and pulled back into a tight ponytail. She wore small silver hoops in her ears, more to keep the holes from closing than for decoration, but the holes were stretched out, she used to wear much bigger earrings when she was younger. Her forehead was lined, much like John's, and she had the same cleft chin. She had seven freckles on her right cheek; nine on her left. Her face was a bit slimmer than John's, her nose much longer, her mouth wider, and she had more bags under her eyes; whether that was a constant or just a symptom of last night's bender Sherlock couldn't be sure.

"Harriet Watson," he said with his best fake smile, "it is my pleasure." He shook her hand.

"I doubt that," she answered amiably as she sat down. "Dunno how John talked you into this but I'm sure it wasn't your first choice for the evening. Anyway, it really is my pleasure. Whenever I talk to John, it's 'Sherlock this' and 'Sherlock that.'" She pointedly ignored John's glare. "So I had to see the legend for myself, didn't I? But first, I'm famished."

Harry ordered wine with dinner, which caused John to mutter at her sternly. She only laughed at him. Sherlock saw how the corners of her eyes crinkled up exactly like John's and was startled at the sudden surge of affection he felt for her. _Not that surprising,_he admonished himself, _a simple drop in cortisol levels, triggered by a conditioned response_. But still, he smiled, even though he knew John didn't think it was funny at all. John stepped on his foot.

"So Sherlock," Harry asked. "John tells me you've just finished up a case but he hasn't put it up on his blog yet. I want to be the first to know. Tell me all about it. And for a change I can hear what really happened, without my silly brother's imagination."

"No, John's problem isn't imagination," Sherlock replied, ignoring John's snort of indignation. "He just writes everything wrong. He insists on all this breathy action and romance, it's ridiculous."

"Then tell me the right way."

So Sherlock told her. It was a horribly simple case but not a bad story. The jealous lover had been the obvious suspect, so the entire Yard had pointed their noses that way, letting the murderer – the au pair, of course – walk right past them. Stupid. Sherlock was leading her through his methodology (the actually useful information that John _should_be writing about) when suddenly he remembered that John was there too. Well, not in his brain, where the really interesting parts of the story happened, but nearby. So he started saying _we_ instead of _I_and adding bits like "John interviewed the girl's friend" and "John searched the basement" and "John thought it was the maid, which was obviously rubbish for 14 distinct reasons, but it was actually quite helpful that he thought so because his laughably wrongheaded pursuit of that theory led to a rather enlightening conversation with the maid's fiancé…" Sherlock felt quite proud of himself for thinking of including John and he turned to him with a wide smile on his face. John wasn't smiling. But Harry was showing a proper degree of attentiveness, and oohed and ahhed all the way to the conclusion .

_Not a complete idiot,_Sherlock thought as the food arrived. _She had the sense to get me talking about myself, stroke my ego, learn more about me and prevent me from learning about her. As if I can't do two things at once._ While telling his story, Sherlock had deduced a number of facts about Harry's job, her love life, and her health, and they were all extremely boring. He'd mention the medications to John later; bringing them up over dinner would probably be a bit not good. He congratulated himself for thinking of that.

Sherlock's fears about the rest of the evening were confirmed when Harry and John began to drift into small talk, _god help me,_ and gossip – a cousin who's getting married or divorced or something, a mutual friend who had a baby or can't have a baby, _why am I here._ Sherlock mournfully scooped up some lamb and lentils with a piece of injera and stuffed it in his mouth. After three more mouthfuls of food, he was completely bored with eating. With this inane conversation. With this restaurant. With this chair. He was suddenly seized with the idea of grabbing the gun out of John's coat and holding it to his own temple. He could imagine the look of horror on John's face, the panicked confusion on Harry's, the chaos as everyone in the restaurant screamed and rushed for the door, chairs and dishes crashing to the floor, the restaurant owner yelling "No No No No…" Now that would be interesting. Also, a bit not good. Sherlock clasped his fingers tightly in his lap to suppress the urge to just reach over…

He reached for his mobile instead.

_Request your assistance._ _MH_

_Difficult problem. You will enjoy it._ _MH_

_Rather urgent._ _MH_

_Answer._ _MH_

_You're being juvenile._ _MH_

_Answer me or I will get your attention another way._ _MH_

Sherlock sighed and forwarded the last text to John. Since Mycroft's means of getting his attention often inconvenienced him, John had specifically asked that he be warned about this sort of thing. Which Sherlock couldn't understand, because wouldn't that take all the fun out of being kidnapped? But it was important to John, so ok then.

Still fully engaged in conversation with his sister, John felt his mobile vibrate, read the message, and typed out a reply.

_Just answer him. Don't drag me into this._

"John, are you listening to me?"

"Yep. Clara says she wants the cat even though she always complained about it when you were together. She's just trying to get a reaction out of you."

_No. I hate government cases._

_Don't care if you take it, just answer him._

"Don't take the bait, Harry. You know how it'll end up."

_If I do, that's 3 favors today._

_How will I ever pay you back? I could do your shopping, pick up after you, sew the buttons back on your shirt – oh wait I already DO._

Sherlock huffed.

Harry looked back and forth between the two men and her eyes widened. "Are you actually texting each other? Right now?" Both looked up at her, then at each other, and said nothing. Sherlock turned back to his mobile, and John smiled sheepishly at her. "That's just…wow."

_Meet me at Warehouse 7. SH_

_You honor me. Enjoy your dinner. MH_

Harry asked Sherlock if he had any projects he was working on between cases, and he started to tell her about the Bart's database, but John stepped on his foot. He changed the subject and was rewarded with a small smile and a military nod. Good, then. He gave a brief summary of his experiments regarding how the rate of asphyxiation might be affected by lung size and smoking history. It was clearly over her head, but his cursory description seemed to be adequate for the social requirements of the moment.

There was a little more inane chatter and then Harry said, as if she'd just remembered, "Oh, Sherlock, I need to thank you!"

"For what?"

"For recruiting Johnny to the team!" Sherlock frowned. This must be some idiom he'd deleted; he didn't play sports and if he did, how could he and Harry be on the same team? Oh, but then he understood, because John turned bright red and dealt a swift kick under the table and Harry was holding her shin and howling "owowowow" loud enough to make all the other patrons look. She chuckled.

"I have told you," John said through gritted teeth, "we are just friends. I'm sorry, but I am still not gay. Please do grow up."

She turned to Sherlock and raised an eyebrow.

"He's right," Sherlock nodded. "I'm quite sure we're not having sex. I'd have noticed."

"Hm," Harry said, running her finger along the edge of her wine glass. "You don't say." Turning back to John, she leaned across the table and whispered conspiratorially, "I've always suspected, you know. Ever since that incident with Andrew Lee."

"You know bloody well," John growled, "nothing happened with Andrew Lee. It was all a misunderstanding."

"Oh, I understand, believe me." She dodged another kick under the table, threw her head back, and laughed harder. John was turning red again. _It starts at the edges of his face and moved towards the center, almost like the opposite of morbid discoloration_, Sherlock mused. He rather enjoyed goading John to this point himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Harry observing him with a little smirk. _We share a hobby_, he thought.

"Well, you've got to admit it wouldn't be surprising. You have always tried to copy whatever I do," Harry teased, "haven't you, John?"

"Bollocks," John snorted.

"You know it's true. Running along behind me like a puppy. I couldn't get rid of you no matter what I tried. Following me into the stupidest fixes."

"Like breaking into the Forrester's house?" John chuckled, shaking his head.

"Exactly!"

"Well, there were times you were right glad I was following you. The Kincaid brothers?"

"Oi." Harry nodded in agreement.

"Massive blokes," John explained to Sherlock. "Or they seemed to us at the time. We were… what, eleven and twelve?" Harry nodded. "Harry had always mucked about with the boys, y'know, but overnight they realized she was a girl and stopped talking to her."

"And so John stopped talking to all of them," Harry interjected, with the most genuine smile Sherlock had seen all night.

"Yeah, well. Anyway, one day Harry is running about the neighborhood…"

"And didn't know Johnny was following me. Creepy little bugger."

"…and Jimmy Kincaid, the bigger one, makes some remarks that, well, a man doesn't want to hear about his sister."

"I swung the first punch. For the record, I need to make that clear."

"She did." John nodded solemnly. "Harry definitely threw the first punch, which did not land anywhere near its target."

They both laughed. Harry rolled her eyes, "Oi, but Jimmy was tall! He punches me back, and I go flying, just soaring through the air, but then…" She started giggling. "Then I hear this, this _sound_, a bit like a pig maybe? This squealing…"

"Oh shut up! That was my battle cry!" John held his head in his hands and giggled along with her. " Next thing I remember, I had him on down on the sidewalk and I was just pummeling him."

"Yeah, you were in your zone, weren't you? And didn't even know when Robbie Kincaid showed up. But I got him in the stomach and then in the throat and had him up against a fence…" Her eyes were flashing.

"We were winning for a minute there, weren't we?"

"For maybe a minute and a half." They both laughed ruefully. "Didn't last. Robbie knocked out my tooth and threw dirt in my eye… That weasely little git actually threw dirt in my eye!"

"Well you did kick him in the bullocks!"

"Only after the dirt! That was good though… I'll never forget how his eyes bugged out of his head… And then… Jimmy was sitting on you… with his fat arse…"

They were both laughing so hard now that the words came in intermittent gasps.

John managed to say, "And then Mrs. Freeman's dog…" and Harry yapped, and they both doubled over.

"Oh god, that nasty little thing…" John continued, with difficulty, "latching onto Jimmy…. And he… he…"

"Oh!Oh!Oh!Oh!" Harry squealed, presumably in imitation of poor Jimmy. They both collapsed into laughter again and were just recovering when Harry said, with a glint in her eye, "And then _Gran_."

"Oh Jesus!" John fell apart again. "Oh Christ, the look on her face when we walked in. And she… she says… 'I will never… make a _pie_… for either of you ever… again." They both howled with laughter.

Sherlock watched, stunned. He had never seen John laugh this hard, anywhere near this hard, with anyone but him. He had never thought to wonder why. He glanced over at Harry, who was apparently doing an imitation of Gran. She threw her napkin at John's face and for a split second, though her mouth kept smiling, her eyes went dead cold and met his. The meaning in that look was unmistakable: _Don't you ever forget who was here first_. The moment was gone as quickly as it came and she was pounding the table again, wiping the tears from her eyes.

… ... ...

"Johnny, before you go I need to borrow Sherlock for just one minute. I have to ask him something." They were on the sidewalk, saying their goodbyes, and it was taking forever. Sherlock was clenching his fists in his coat pockets; it was all he could do to stay put instead of hailing his own cab.

John rolled his eyes. "Fine, but he's not going to tell you anything different. We're really not a couple, Harry."

Harry smiled and grabbed Sherlock's arm, steering him a good distance away from where John stood.

"Listen, Sherlock," she said, her face suddenly very close to his, closer than it should've been at her height, and her eyes glinting metallic. "I don't know exactly what _this_ is." She motioned to the expanse between Sherlock and John. "I'm pretty well convinced now that you're not… romantically involved. But that doesn't change the fact that John is mad about you, like I have never seen."

Sherlock sighed. "Harry, it's not…"

"Shut up, don't be daft. I'm not saying he fancies you, you know what I mean. God knows why, I certainly don't, but he adores you." _It's true_, Sherlock thought, and a smile played around his lips. "Stop that," Harry hissed. "I am trying to tell you something that you need to know."

She narrowed her eyes and paused. "You are one lucky and, if you ask me, undeserving bastard to have that man's devotion. You could hurt him, break him apart, without even thinking about it. And if you do, I swear on my mother's grave you will regret it."

_But that's my line,_Sherlock thought. In fact, just twelve days ago he'd been pacing a tight figure eight in Lestrade's office, yelling into his mobile "If I find so much as a scratch on him, _I will end you!__"_ And then he was on the kidnapper's trail, running through the alleys of the East End, until he found them, in the basement of an abandoned factory (honestly, is there a criminal left in England with an original idea in his head?) and the kidnapper was knocked down and dazed and John was alive. But he did have a scratch, he had several, as well as a few contusions, a black eye, and a split lip. Sherlock wanted to be a man of his word, but John was saying "No, no, calm down, it's ok, I'm ok, I'm really ok, please calm down, are you listening to me? Is Lestrade on his way? Just wait for Lestrade, Sherlock _please_…" So Sherlock had to satisfy himself with slamming the man's head into a piece of machinery and crushing his hand. It wasn't anywhere near what he'd promised, but he hoped it made an impression. And now, this diminutive blonde woman was hissing his own line back at him. He tilted his head and looked at her with curiosity and bemusement.

"I understand you're a dangerous man, Sherlock," she said. Neither her voice nor her stare wavered. "I obviously can't threaten you physically. I obviously can't outsmart you." He snorted. She sneered. "But I can promise you, if you hurt him, I… will… make... your… life…"

She let the silence hang between them for a moment.

"… annoying."

"What?"

"You heard me. I will bother you, constantly, for the rest of your days. I will think of nothing but devious and chaotic ways to irritate you. I will be _random_."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "How?"

"Of course not. I won't tell you my methods. You can deduce if you like, but there's only one way to find out if you're right, and I do not recommend it. I am tenacious. I am relentless."

"So I've heard."

"You've heard right."

"People are never random. I'd stop you quite promptly."

"Perhaps. Let's not find out."

Sherlock considered this. Harry's face reminded him of John's, whenever Mycroft was trying to stare him down – unflinching, solid, thoroughly rooted to the earth. Sherlock loved that.

"I don't want to hurt him," he said after a long moment. "John is… important. He is one of the most important people in my life." _Yes, that's true, isn't it? Yes._ "I don't want to hurt him, Harry."

"Glad to hear it." She took her stare down a level, from red alert to orange.

"But I probably will."

Back up to red. "And why do you say that?"

"I'm not good at… people. Not my area. John knows this. He's a grown man, and he can take care of himself." He started to brush past her.

Harry blocked his path, her head cocked to one side. Her voice dropped a register. "Do you really think that?"

Sherlock stared down at her. He could make a cutting remark about her childhood, about her alcoholism, about any number of things. He swallowed it down because he knew John would stomp his foot hard for that. "No. Given the choice, he'll take care of me, not himself."

She nodded and stepped back down to orange alert. "Good, you're not a _hopeless_ git. You're not good at people? So bloody what. Muddle through like everybody else. That doesn't make you special. That doesn't set you apart. What makes you special is that big amazing brain of yours. So why don't you put that big amazing brain to the task of figuring out how to _not_hurt my little brother? I'm sure you can manage."

_And why shouldn't I? It's just a simple puzzle, one that ordinary people take on everyday._Sherlock pulled his coat collar up and squared his shoulders. "Of course."

"Brilliant! I'm glad we talked." And Harry grabbed his arm again and turned back to John with a wide smile. "Johnny, your Sherlock really is fantastic! I'm starting to see why you're so mad about him."

In the cab, John asked, "So what did you tell her?"

"Oh, you know. We go at it like rabbits morning and night. You tie me up and make me wear a collar and crawl about the flat naked. I get you off at crime scenes. That sort of thing."

John laughed. "Right, you would say that, wouldn't you? You see, that's why I don't trust you. Speaking of which, why are we not going home?"

"Mycroft." Sherlock fished his mobile out of his coat and started checking his messages.

"Ah." John smiled, just a little smugly. "Thanks for coming to dinner, Sherlock. And for making such an effort. I really do appreciate it."

"Mm."

"So," John threw his shoulders back and sat up straight. "I'm ready. Go ahead, do your worst. What do you think of my sister?"

Sherlock gazed out the window, at the city beyond it and at John's reflection. "She's… interesting," he replied.


End file.
